


bet your bottom on it

by halnimbus



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Levator Ani Syndrome, M/M, Masturbation, Trans Dave Strider, incestuous undertones tm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:20:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28265307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halnimbus/pseuds/halnimbus
Summary: >Dave: have searing pelvic pain
Relationships: Dave's Bro | Beta Dirk Strider/Dave Strider
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	bet your bottom on it

“Fuck!” 

To say pelvic pain is a pain in the ass is an understatement. Its someone impaling you on molten hot steel, where the break and entry point is the tight, tight ring of muscles leading up your rectum. Its the equivalent of that time bro tried to raw you with barely his cum as lubricant. Its the equivalent of when you, on the cusp of thirteen, regretted the series of unfortunate events that had accumulated with you sitting on your tailbone, four fingers, knuckles deep in your own heat, tender tips scraping along the walls for just enough room to snatch back your limb, only for bro to enter your room to the sight of you, and popping lube in a flash. 

Suffice to say, youd learned your lesson: only hes allowed to enter you raw. But also, he fingered you better than you could ever finger yourself; like he came ken-boxed with an innate ability to press in at the right angles, to know when stretching you meant a bolt down to your stomach or the delicate flesh threatening to tear, craning his neck to hear you better the second hed pinch the tip of your groin. He knew you inside and out, mapped you out long before you thought of pressing your fingers to the slit lining your pelvis and squirming in pleasure.

So yes, its quite the understatement. Its devoid of all the things that make you crave bro inside you; none of the one-in-a-blue-moon gentle touch, none of the heavy weight pressing oppressively (just shy of warding away a stray ghost in the corner of his peripheral) along your spine, and certainly none of the blind spots that light up the back of your eyelids like youd just walked into eden.

Its satan looking down on you with his spear thingy repeatedly probing you in the ass til it gives and youre left a mangled mess with a lesion the size of texas, summer heat hot, burning at the frayed edges of your nerves.

Okay its established now; you cannot handle the pain anymore; youre not a cool kid who can bear the slices of his katana with thin lips and apathetic eyes. Youre all skin, crawling on the tile floor with each stab of pain down your rectum and up your ass walls.

So here you are:

“F-fuckin’ fuck!!” You topple over, body strung so tightly a string threatens to pluck. you hope its the one in your neck. “oh my fuckin’— merciful lord please—“‘

The slew of profanities and biblical praise ring out true and clear like a ladys choir Sunday morning on your way to the pharmacy down the block. The cooing of texan pigeons a sick backdrop to the mix youre developing in the middle of the kitchen. Said mix is admittedly rather shrill and lacks the ironic grace youd normally apply in the form of nicholas cagesmost iconic line according to egbert, dont quote him on this: put the bunny back in the box-box-box, sound turning static-y and deteriorating at the rate poes rabbit had deteriorated in. To be quite honest, that rabbit was ugly as shit.

“Shhit,” You hiss, bucking your hips like some deliberate force poked you in the rear with malice behind its intent. “Please stop not now im sorry i called you ugly.” 

If heaven was merciful rabbit would be your god and hed take pity on you. but the only god your bro had introduced you to on Sunday afternoons is the empty space on the rooftop spanning you and him.

“Bro... bro....” hiccups line your chest, going off one by one like the fourth of july; spittle and tears painting the floors in a sheen so very clear. 

In a moment of clarity, much like your saliva dotting the floors, you remember the unsolicited advice jade had given you for when youre stressed out and cant sleep: “phallic stimulation!” To be fair, she didnt know you dont exactly have the full package(yet), but the sentiment was appreciated nonetheless. 

So with her encouraging smile in mind, you gather your strength, sliding over to the counter and leaning back. Your sigh escapes you just as another bolt of lightning zips past your rectum, but you grit your teeth, pushing onwards, past the pain, past grinding your teeth to powder, shoving your shorts past your hips and over your knees, dangling at your ankles just to give you enough space to spread your legs out. 

The first gust of cool air against you feels all sorts of heavenly, like god himself has descended and with wings of ice is fanning your flaming skin into an acceptable degree of temperature. You sigh, tingles running through you at the sight of yourself spread out on the kitchen floor, boxers pooling near the end of you.

“Hnng...” youre aware of the dull pain lurking in your bum, ready to pounce at a moments notice, but the chilly floor is already working its magic into you; goosebumps rising along your skin in little nodes, nipples perking from behind your shirt. A vein in your clit is pulsating so strongly it stings, like its weeping for you to dip a finger in and let it all trickle into your hand, so you do, and it brings a gasp out of your chest: the coldness that has wrapped around your fingers a stark contrast to the warmth steadily pumping into your palm.

“Mmmhmm, fuck....”

You give it a try, pushing the tip of your index in, a tiny something compared to bro’s girth, you remind yourself, youve taken much bigger before, you can— 

“Ahhhh,” your whine reads longer than your love poem to john in fifth grade, but thinking of john-buck-teeth-endearing-idiot-whose-smile-could-light-up-a-room is really dampening the slut mode you found yourself in, so you turn to him, as you always do.

“Bro..” it starts with a whisper, tentatively tasting his name on your lips, alone, and at the mercy of your body; utterly devoid of the excessive waves of warmth his body emits, utterly devoid of his sure touch, no longer letting your body go limp for him to handle as he sees fit, but tensing the muscles along your upper thighs in an effort to keep them splayed as wide as your bones can allow you.

What would he do, if he were here, with your wet hole? Would he fuck you stupid till your brains are mush, or would he edge you on til you promised you wouldnt ever touch yourself again without him here? 

Either way, both nearly brought you to closure. Youve sagged down with half of your back laying on the ground, the other half bent to support your head. Your determined to not spread eagle all over the floor, you wont be able to see yourself come apart then, only feel the ground swallow you and spit you out as it goes. His eyes are pretty, they are. golden with specks of green sprinkled in like fairy-Rock made a special delivery of green stardust right to his irises. 

But his hands drive you crazy. the way they press into your skin like he wants to sink in and grab at something buried deep down, patent lust that creeps behind every grip, every grope, every rough kiss he plants to the corner of your mouth, like hes dying of thirst and youre his only salvation.

“Fuck, yes, bro, bro, touch me, fuck me...” youre rambling on and on, mind completely overpowered by the very image of him that drives you over the edge every single time, bare pelvis connected to yours, skin on skin in the most seething of texan weathers your apartment witnesses on the weekly; breaths mangled, lips swollen, skin saturated in kisses and bruises.

You reach up to your nipple, nub oversensitive from lack of stimulation, and its then you cum, arching your back, hips digging into the ground with the forceful of his knee digging into your chest post-spar— a little breathless, a little victorious. Your fingers are moving so fast in and out of your body as it spasms over and over, toes curled at the intense pleasure crashing into you in waves. Your moan is high, and it reverberates in your throat as you ride out your orgasm. 

Spent, you revel at the sight of your knees, with the scars down your thighs jutting out. you smooth over them with shaky palms, thumbing your belly button, kneading the skin, pulling at the coarse hair leading south. 

Damn you should probably see about joining that choir, youve got a golden larynx.


End file.
